


The Same Fight

by Jld71, ShadyB



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Forced Prostitution, Gen, Multi, Rape/Non-con Elements, Underage Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 05:34:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13827576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jld71/pseuds/Jld71, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadyB/pseuds/ShadyB
Summary: After winning the Hunger Games, Finnick hoped for a simple life.  What he found was a new Arena, new rules and the same fight.





	The Same Fight

**The Same Fight**

                When the games ended, Finnick Odair thought he would go back to being a fisherman.  That his life would return to the way it had been before the Reaping, before he saw the Capital or fought in the Arena.  He thought that he and his step-father would sail out each morning before the sun rose.  That he would sail to the shallows and spear the striped sharks with his trident or sail to the deep and cast his nets.  At sunset he would return with his catch.  That was what his life had been like, from when he was just five years old until he was fourteen and became a Tribute.  Surely it would return to that when he was a Victor. 

                He realized of course that there would be differences, good things all.  He and his family would leave their shabby, crowded home by the sea and move into a fine new house in the Victor’s Village.  Each of his little half-sisters would have a room of their own.  His mother who had always cooked on the open hearth and washed their clothes in the river would have modern appliances to help her with her work.  Mags, his beloved mentor would be right next door. 

                All of them would have everything they needed and more; always enough food to eat and warm clothes in winter.  His baby sisters wouldn’t have to grow up hungry and cold as he had.  Times had been hard after his father died.  Until his mother remarried when he was 10, they had often lived from hand to mouth.  He’d never been able to go to school or learned to read and write.  What sums he could do he’d learned at market.  When they were big enough, the little girls, who ranged from three years old to just 8 months, would dress in pretty dresses and go to school with satchels full of notepaper, ink pens and books.  They would read to him at night and play piano and guitar.  The secrets of story and song would be theirs.  

It wasn’t just his family that would benefit from his good fortune. Finnick held the Temple close to his heart, revered the triple Goddess of Sea, Sand and Sky in Her infinite love and glory.  When he and his mother were alone and living hard, Her Temple was always open to them.  Her priestesses would share their food and warmth of body and warmth of heart.  That was where he met Mags, a long ago Victor of the Games who had become a priestess in the middle of her life.  Even before she became his official mentor she was like a second mother to him.  

When he was a boy of eight, Finnick was washed overboard in a storm. Two days later he washed up ashore, cold and blue but living.  Only the blessing and protection of the Goddess could have carried him through.  Only the Goddess could have brought him through the brutal chaos that was the Hunger Games, preserved his life and made him victorious.  His gratitude to Her knew no bounds.   

He had such plans, to serve and celebrate Her. On her holy days and feast days, he would open the Victor’s Village to all—the fisher folk and the town folk, the merchants at the market and the priestess of the Temple, young and old, rich and poor.  There would be food and drink, games and dancing, worship and giving thanks. 

Though he no longer needed to work, he and his step-father would continue to fish. Of course they would.  They were fishermen, born and breed for the ocean.  Instead of taking their catch to market at the end of the day, they would give what they caught to the Temple.  The priestesses would use it for food and sell it for money. They would use to help others just as they had once helped him and his mother when they were alone and hungry.

He had such plans. On the train home from the Capital, he kept Mags up all hours weaving his dreams.  Oddly, she never had much to say.  He wondered why she kept so quiet and why she looked so sad. 

He arrived home and made his dreams real. On the day of the Harvest Feast the Victor’s Village rang with laughter and music.  Each day when he was at the place where the sea was beneath him, the land in his sight and the sky in his face he praised the Goddess for his fortune.  At night the priestesses meant his boat when it came to shore.  He and his step-father helped the women load the fish and prawn and shellfish into carts to carry away to the Temple. For months this went on and it was good; though he noticed as each day ended that Mags seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.  He couldn’t help but wonder why.

Then one night after they had loaded the wagons he went home for dinner and found there were guests. It was his team from the Hunger Games; their Capital finery bright and outlandish compared to the simple and functional garments worn by his family.  Mags was there too, looking ill at ease, maybe even frightened. 

Mauvella, who had been his handler during the Games , stepped forward. She hugged him tightly to her ample bosom.  Her lavender wig made her at least seven feet tall.  She was wearing an orange fur sheath with purple sequin tights and orange high heels that seemed to twist and contort her feet.  Dozens, maybe hundreds of charm bracelets jangled on both her wrists. 

“Finnicky! Precious!  Such exciting news!”  She sing-songed loudly, like a trumpet blaring.  “We’ve been sent to fetch you and get you ready for a very special personal appearance!”

“I thought we were done with all that,” Finnick said ungraciously. The weeks on the train, the rally’s in every district, the photo opportunities and all that nonsense.  Hadn’t it been enough? 

“Oh no no no, it’s only just begun! Just everyone in the Capital is dying to meet you.  We’ve been asked to arrange for you to have a date with a _very important person_!”

“Who? Some kind of a contest winner?”  He vaguely remembered watching a show once where a gaggle of screaming girls competed to go out with a pop idol. There was no way he was going to do anything like that. 

“Oh no no no. Nothing like that!  A spectacular champion such as yourself won’t be wasted on teenybopper nonsense.  This is a very fine and fancy, very mature woman—Dia Verme, President Snow’s very own head of Personal Security.” 

“We’re going to make you sooooo handsome,” Brahms, his stylist piped up. “I think your hair will look much better parted on the left.  And what am I supposed to do with that tan?  You haven’t been using sunscreen, have you?  And you smell horrible, just like fish.  I do hope it comes out.”

“Ms. Verme is just a huge fan of yours,” Mauvella went on. “Maybe you remember her; she sponsored you quite nicely during the Games.”

“Yes, I remember her. She sent me food a couple of times.  And medicine when that girl from District 10 cut my shoulder.”  Finnick recalled.  He winced slightly, remembering the girl flying at him, face smeared with mud, knife in hand.  She’d been a sweet-faced milkmaid driven to animal cunning.  She’d killed one of the deadly mutated snakes that roamed the Arena, milked its venom onto her blade. She’d given him just a little cut but it had left him writhing in pain.  If the antidote hadn’t arrived when it did he would have died.  He could see her face in the sky, hear the cannon.  What was her name? 

Dia Verme he remembered too. He’d met her at a reception a few days after his victory.  She was beautiful, of middle age, statuesque with long, dark hair.  She’d worn a dress a shade of burgundy red that reminded him of blood. 

“I’m so pleased you won,” she’d said to him. “It would have been a pity for such a beauty to die so young.”  She’d stroked his arm; he’d smiled at her because he didn’t know what else to do.

 “I already met Ms. Verme,” he told Mauvella.  “I met all the sponsors.”

“Well that was just a quick reception, scarcely an introduction. She’d interested in getting to know you up close and personally.  Surely you don’t begrudge her that after all the help she gave you.  That nasty little snake from District 10 would have killed you with her horrible poison blades!”

“But you showed her,” Brahms added. “Ran her right through with your trusty trident!”  It had been much messier than that, much uglier.  People seemed to remembered the Games differently than Finnick did. 

“Such a dramatic moment,” Mauvella gasped putting a hand to her heart.

“About Dia Verme,” Finnick cut in bringing things back to the matter at hand. “Please tell her I’m very flattered and that I’ll always be grateful for her generosity and help during the Games but that I have to decline.  Winter is coming.  I have responsibilities here, I really can’t get away to go off to the Capital.” 

Mauvella and Brahms shared a meaningful look with each other, then with Mags.

“Didn’t you explain to him?” Mauvella asked her.  Mags shook her head.

“He’s just a boy,” Mags said. “Not even fifteen.”

“He’s a Victor. There are certain things expected of him.  You of all people know that.”

Mags drew him aside, hand on his arm.

“Finnick,” she said gently, “you must go with them. You must do as you’re asked.  They didn’t come here to give you an invitation; they came to give you an order.  I’d hoped things had changed since I was young.  They have but for the worse.  To be a Victor is to be a pawn.  There are people with much more power than you.  You are at their beck and call.  Do what they ask of you.  Go with Mauvella, do as you’re told.  Meet this woman; make her like you, make her happy or bad things will happen to those you love.  Your family, me, even your team, if you don’t do what’s expected of you, we could be hurt, imprisoned, even killed.”

“I have no choice?”

“None.”

“You knew about this, you’ve known all along. You should have told me.”

“I wanted to let you to believe, just for a little longer that your life was your own.”

On the train to the Capital, Brahms worked his magic. Baths and cologne washed away the smell of fish and sea.  Special lotions and exfoliation corrected the damage that sun and salt had done to his skin and hands.  His hair was styled, eyebrows plucked, nails manicured. 

“I’m going to need to shave you now,” Brahms finally said, with unaccustomed gingerness.

“I shaved this morning,” Finnick told him. “My beard doesn’t grow that fast.”

“Um, not your face. I need to shave you everywhere.”

“What? Why?”  One unspoken question had remained after he spoke with Mags.  Now he realized it was being answered for him.  Brahms seemed at a loss for words but Mauvella stepped forward bravely.

“Surely you know that body hair is tres unfashionable in the Capital,” she said rapidly. “Unless of course it’s neatly shaped and dyed to match a wig, then it might pass.  Dia Verme is a highly discerning woman and we want you looking your best.” 

Finnick felt slightly ill.

“This date, she’ll be seeing me… without my clothes on, won’t she? I’m expected to make love to her, aren’t I?”

“Oh, that Mags! She was supposed to handle this part.  As if I don’t have enough to do.  That old woman is useless.  Oh precious, it’ll be wonderful.  You’ll drink champagne, you’ll dance and gaze into each other’s eyes.  It’ll be romantic!”

“I… I haven’t ever been with a woman. I’ve never even kissed a girl…”

“I’m sure she knows that. I’m sure she went to extra effort to ensure that she would be your first!  You’ll do just fine!  After all, it’s the most natural thing in the world!  And I’m sure she’s looking forward to initiating you!  That’s the advantage of an older woman for a young boy!”

“Does it end with Dia Verme? Will she be the only one?”

“You’re an attractive boy. There are going to be oodles of people who want to get to know you, to spend time with you.  Some of them might become especially fond of you and want a long-term arrangement.” 

“How long will this go on?”

“You’re very young and blessed with a glorious bone structure. I can’t see your appeal diminishing anytime soon.  You have the potential to be in high demand for many, many years.”  She glanced at him.  He looked as horrified as he felt.  “Oh please, Finnicky, don’t panic.  It won’t be so bad.  These people are the elite, dreadfully wealthy; they’ll do anything for you!  You’ll be lavished with gifts, anything you want.  Clothes, jewelry, cars, even houses.  You’ll get into the most exclusive clubs and they’ll take you on their yachts and aero planes…”

“You’re asking me to prostitute myself.   You want me to be a whore...” 

Tears came to her eyes.

“My precious boy, believe me when I tell you that I don’t want you to be anything but what you are right this minute. Do you think I want to do this to you?  It breaks my heart but I have a job to do, and so do you.  So please, try and make the best of it.  Don’t let it be ugly and sordid.  Pretend it’s a glorious adventure!” 

He hung his head.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t blame you.  It’s just… that I don’t want to.  It’s wrong that I have to.  It goes against what I believe.  It goes against the way of the Goddess.”

He felt like a sullen child saying it. He knew it didn’t matter.  What he wanted, what he believed, it didn’t matter.  He knew what they thought of his beliefs in the Capital.  What was real to him was a joke there.  The quaint folkways of District 4, their primitive worship of a fish Goddess was universally looked down upon by the urban sophisticates of the Capital. It was like being in the Arena again.  When he was there, he had not wanted to kill, he had not believed in killing but he had killed because the alternative was death.  Now as then, he knew he would have to do whatever was required of him to survive. 

“What do you need me to do?” He asked Brahms, who breathed a sigh of relief.

Following the instructions of his stylist, Finnick stripped off his clothing, lay down on a metal table. Brahms showered him with water, lathered his chest and began to shave him.  He was very careful, light of hand.  He made no nicks, drew no blood.  Finnick’s arms were next and under his arms, then his legs, finally the hair between his legs, both rough and soft.  Delicately Brahms moved his penis from one side to the other as he scraped away the curls of pubic hair.  Afterwards he rubbed an ointment on the bare skin.  Finnick had never felt more naked, more exposed.

 He’d heard that this was what nurses did before and operation.  Prepared the patient, shaving the area where the incision would be made.  What was an operation but pain and bloodshed done in the hopes of saving life?  Life was all, in the end.  Better to surrender than to die. 

When he meant Dia Verme he was charming and flirtatious. As Mauvella had said they drank champagne, they danced and gazed into each other’s eyes.  He thanked her sincerely for her support during the games.  He complimented her violet gray eyes, told her she was beautiful.  She was beautiful, older than his mother but conditioned and plumped and toned to create the illusion of eternal youth.   As Mauvella had said, she knew he would be a virgin.  She was amused by his lack of experience and graciously instructed him, showing him exactly what he needed to do to please her. 

She was well satisfied.

At the end of the evening he found he was almost grateful to her.  Really, she hadn’t been so hard to please.  All she required was a few mannerisms on his part and free access to his body.  Because he had pleased her, his world would be preserved. 

After Dia Verme there were several other women. With each he gained more confidence in his skill, refined his act.  There were men as well.  He hadn’t realized there would be men.  The idea of it shook him but when he actually met with the first man he discovered that what he wanted wasn’t so different from the women.  The first two men he was with were easy, awed at his beauty. They treated him like a God.  They were content to kiss him, touch his hairless body and suck his cock without asking for reciprocation. 

The third man was different. He was the chief advisor of President Snow himself as well as the sponsor who had given Finnick his trident in the Arena.  For their meeting, he requested that Finnick wear the uniform he’d worn as a Tribute, only to beat him down and tear it off of him.  Finnick willed himself not to fight back as the man wrapped his hands around his throat and fucked him until he blacked out. 

During his last breathless moments of consciousness, Finnick was sure he was going to die. Instead he woke up bruised and sore in Mauvella’s arms.  Cradled to her he cried for the first and last time for whatever innocence he had lost. 

“I know it was awful, precious but some people have different ways of expressing passion,” Mauvella cooed.  The next day the same man again requested his company.  Finnick played his role.  He was charming, confident and flirtatious despite the finger marks on his throat.  During dinner he rested a seductive hand on his host’s knee.  You’d never guess he was terrified, coerced, unwilling.

This man, Snow’s high advisor, became Finnick’s first long-term lover. Others followed, he was terribly popular.  It wasn’t entirely his good looks; he had a way of putting his admirers at ease.  They were comfortable around him, they trusted him.  Many told him their secrets.  He listened because they wanted him to listen.  He kept their confidences because to do otherwise would be to cut the throats of those he loved.  So long as he was trustworthy and charming, a good whore, his dreams could live. 

Years passed, he was rarely at District 4. His young sisters went to school. They learned to read the books he sent them and play the piano and guitars he’d bought for them but wasn’t there to hear.  Only once a year did he return home, for the Reaping.  Afterwards he and Mags would accompany the chosen Tributes to the Capital, train them as best they could, finagle the best sponsorship possible for them and watch them die.  After a few years they blurred together, these Tributes, these doomed boys and girls.  Annie Cresta was no exception.  She distinguished herself in his eyes only by living.  Only after she had won and been destroyed by the Games did he really see her.

In her wild eyes, her distorted face, he recognized himself stripped of his veneer of charm and sophistication.  In her madness he saw the price he had paid. 

He didn’t understand for a long time that he loved her. Only that she consumed his thoughts that he needed to be with her, protecting and comforting her, to be whole. 

When she was well, he took her to the sea. She would run into the surf, diving into the waves.  She let them carry her out impossibly far before she would miraculously break away and swim back to shore.  Each time she did this, he was sure he would lose her but it was worth it to see her so fearless and so free.  They went to the Temple together.  He’d avoided this place he once loved above all others for many years.  She brought him back to it.  She would sit on the floor in his house, playing dolls with his sisters, dancing with them on the grass. 

She wasn’t always well. Sometimes she didn’t know him or anyone.  She would cower in a corner screaming and fighting if anyone approached her.  Once she tried to kill herself with a knife.  Once she broke a leg throwing herself from the roof of her fine Victor’s house.  When she was like this, he could do nothing for her but in other areas, he did all he could to keep her safe.

Years in the Capital passing from bed to bed had given him a little influence of his own, enough to save Annie from his fate. Enough to ensure that any request made to bring Annie Cresta to come to the Capital for a “date,” to spend time with her or get to know her better would be overturned.  He dropped hints in the right places so the word was spread that she was incurably insane, regressed to infanthood, a mad wailing thing unappealing to even the  kinkiest of the Capital’s elite.  It worked.  She remained untouched, safe, his secret.  

Even when she was well, they rarely spoke. She would hold his hand, rest her head on his shoulder.  Sometimes she would kiss him.  That was enough.  That was love.  He carried it with him when he was called away to the Capital, ordered up by another power player, tossed into another bed.  He thanked the Goddess that she had come to him.  After all the tainted relationships he’d had, would have in the future, in her he had been given a chance at something pure, something sanctified by Sea and Sand and Sky. 

They were the only two people who understood that the Games had never ended. That there was a new Arena, new rules, but the same fight.


End file.
